Chapter 9 - The Long Vigil
The fourth-floor corridor was much quieter in the afternoon than it had been during the frantic midnight rush of two days ago.
When I stepped off the elevator, I expected to find the hallway empty. Instead, sitting in the hard plastic chairs outside Clara’s room, was a figure I hadn't expected to see in Chicago again.
Arthur Hayes looked up as I walked down the linoleum. He wasn't wearing his grease-stained canvas jacket today; he wore a clean, dark tweed blazer, his gray hair neatly combed, holding a paper cup of lukewarm cafeteria coffee in his calloused hands.
He didn't stand up, but his pale eyes tracked my movement every step of the way.
“I heard about the federal building downtown,” Arthur said quietly as I stopped in front of him. “Word travels fast when an empire collapses before lunch.”
“You shouldn't be here, Arthur,” I said, leaning against the wall. “If Moretti’s men or the feds trace you back to this hospital, your five-year-old ghost story is over.”
“Let them look,” Arthur sighed, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “When you spend half your life hiding in the shadows, you get tired of running. Besides... my daughter is in there, and so is the woman who tried to save her from my mistakes.”
“Clara didn't make mistakes,” I corrected him softly. “She just saw the world clearly while I was wearing blinders.”
Arthur gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “She got that from her mother. Stubborn to a fault. Thought she could audit a den of wolves and walk away with a balanced ledger.”
He paused, looking down at his coffee cup before raising his eyes to meet mine.
“She woke up about an hour ago,” Arthur said.
My breath caught in my throat. The cold, steady armor I had worn all morning at the federal courthouse instantly dissolved, leaving behind a raw, terrifying vulnerability.
“Is she...?” I started, but my voice failed me.
“She’s in pain, Dominic,” Arthur said, his voice softening just a fraction. “She’s got a concussion, three cracked ribs, and enough stitches to look like a patchwork quilt. But her head is clear. The nurse said she’s asking for you.”
I looked through the reinforced glass window of the ICU.
Inside, Clara was lying propped up on the adjustable hospital bed, her face bruised and pale, her left arm bandaged beneath a white sling. She wasn't looking at the monitors or the IV drip. Her eyes were fixed directly on the doorway, waiting.
May you like
I reached out, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped inside the quiet room.
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